


No Mean Art

by Arsenic



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo [17]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2020-09-27 04:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Ryan can't sleep, and the bus goes almost (but not quite) to Brendon's house.





	No Mean Art

**Author's Note:**

> I specifically chose not to have Sarah exist in this fic, not because I don’t like her, but because, honestly, I know nothing about her, don’t really feel like she’s in the same kind of public domain the boys are, and hate cheating.
> 
> Thanks once more to airgiodslv for offering up the untaken prompts, and to whomever prompted this. I had fun.
> 
> Title comes from a Nietzsche quote: “Sleeping is no mean art: for its sake one must stay awake all day.”
> 
> Also used for the insomnia box on my hc_bingo card. And unbetaed. All mistakes so seriously my own.

Ryan showed up at Brendon’s house at 3:42 on a Thursday afternoon. Brendon heard the knock while he was having a semi-serious phone conversation with Pete—which was to say that they were discussing tour outfits, rather than surf boards, or something else completely unrelated to business. Upon seeing Ryan at his door, Brendon asked, “Uh, can I call you back?” and hung up without waiting for an answer.

He blinked at Ryan. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

“I was riding the bus,” Ryan explained. “It came here.”

“The closest bus line to here is almost two miles away.”

Ryan frowned. “It kind of came here. It came nearer to here than when I got on it. I was—I’d ridden the loop a few times. I think the driver was starting to get suspicious.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Brendon said. “Ryan—“

“I like riding the bus. It helps me think.”

“You have a bus card?” Brendon couldn’t exactly say what that had to do with anything, but it seemed so outrageous that Ryan had to automate his fucking utilities but could remember how to deal with the machines at the bus stations.

“They let you pay in exact change.”

“Of course they do.” Or, more precisely, of course that was how Ryan went about it, because it was sort of retro, in a nominally-douchey way.

“I don’t really remember walking that far. I was thinking about seeing you.”

The thing about Ryan—well, one of the many things about Ryan—that drove Brendon bugshit insane, was that just when Brendon felt completely assured of his ability to brush Ryan off, Ryan would come up with the exact right thing to say and it would be the one damn thing Ryan didn’t even really plan, just opened his mouth and spilled out.

Brendon sighed and pulled back from the door. “Okay, fine. But we’re playing Guitar Hero, bitch.”

*

Brendon handed Ryan’s ass to him on a platter three times before saying, “So, um, are you gonna need a ride home?”

Ryan rustled around in his pocket and pulled out a rumpled one dollar bill and two quarters. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Not to sound like I don’t know anything about the buses in my own city, or anything, but how close does the bus get to your place?”

Ryan shrugged. “Not too far.”

“Not too far like it was not too far from my place?” It would be getting dark pretty soon, and Brendon didn’t think Ryan wandering around Echo Park with his bus money was a good idea.

Ryan leaned back against the couch and sat his “guitar” to the side. “I was thinking of going to Fred 62’s, maybe. Or Canter’s. I could go diner hopping. Wanna go diner hopping?”

Brendon was not, per se, opposed to the idea of diner hopping. “Depends. Wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“You know what’s nice about the bus?” Ryan asked.

Brendon made a face, but played along. “It’s helping to save the environment?”

“Well, that too, but mostly I was thinking that it always knows where it’s going. It has a _route_, you know, and it doesn’t deviate, not even if, like, _all_ of the passengers want to go somewhere else.”

Brendon rubbed a hand over his face. “Ry. Is there a reason you’re here, and not at Spence’s?”

“With Spencer I would have seen the I-told-you-so on his face. With you there was a decent chance I’d miss it.”

Brendon sucked in a breath at that. Not sure, entirely, what there was to say in response, he stood up. “I need a serious milkshake.”

*

Ryan bought and said, “Z and me, it’s more like, I don’t know, we enjoy each other’s company and all, but there aren’t any promises or-- We miss each other the way we miss our friends when we’re not together.”

Brendon sucked at his milkshake. He knew what Jon and Cassie were like. Even at the height of Panic, even with the two of them in a firmly entrenched Agreement, Jon had always itched to get back to Chicago.

Ryan said, “I just-- He couldn’t have said, ‘Dude, why don’t we record in Chicago?’ I would’ve gone to Chicago. I stayed in fucking Vegas for Pretty, I would’ve ponied up for a plane ticket and—“

Brendon put his milkshake aside and said, “Shut up.”

Ryan halted mid-word and looked a little rebellious for a second, then just closed down. Brendon would have felt bad except for the fact that this was how they worked. Water under the bridge, tide rushing up, whatever, this was how to the two of them functioned. Or it was when Ryan was telling half-truths like he thought Brendon might believe them.

Brendon asked, “You know why Spencer’s still pissed, Ry?”

Ryan glared for a moment before taking a disgustingly large bite of his burger and chewing in what was clearly revenge. What Ryan had never understood about Brendon was that proper Mormon upbringing or no, older brothers were older brothers—Brendon was inured to repulsive behavior. Brendon rode out the bout of spite and Ryan relented, hazarding a guess. “’Cause I broke up the band?”

“I think it’s kind of narcissistic that you take credit for that.”

“I’m pretty narcissistic,” Ryan pointed out.

Brendon didn’t disagree, he just thought it worked itself out in a lot of fucked up ways in Ryan. He shook his head. “It’s because he’s pissed at you for making him pissed at himself for not being the man you thought he was.”

“That’s…convoluted,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, well, it involves you,” Brendon told him. “Everybody thinks it’s the trousers and the slight obliviousness that makes you weird, but what really makes you weird is that despite being screwed over for the better part of your childhood, you have this tendency to believe people really are going to be the best version of themselves just given the chance.”

Ryan traced a pattern on the surface of the diner counter. “Optimism isn’t weird.”

“Unfounded optimism kind of is, for one thing. For another, that isn’t optimism, it’s… I actually have no clue what it is, but you’re the only person I’ve ever met who can consistently get under other people’s skin with it.”

It was a long time before Ryan said, “Oh.”

It was an even longer time before he said, “Look, if you wanna head out, I really do know how to get back to my place by bus.”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Which diner’s next on the list?”

*

After the fourth diner, even Ryan, bottomless pit that he was and ever would be, admitted defeat. He ducked his head and said, “Thanks for, uh, driving.”

“Want a ride home?” Brendon asked.

Ryan looked unsure for a moment, but then he nodded. “Yeah, that would be-- Thanks.”

Brendon thought Ryan had fallen asleep by the time he switched directions, but evidently not, because he said, “You took a wrong turn.”

Without even looking over, Brendon said, “No I didn’t.”

Brendon _felt_ Ryan tense up. Ryan said, “Bren, um—“

“I gave you over half a day. You can give me the rest of the night.”

“You still don’t know how to fight fair,” Ryan accused.

“Yeah, well, maybe if I was arguing with someone who would actually respect those rules in return,” Brendon said unrepentantly.

“Fine,” Ryan said, coming just short of kicking his foot like a seven year old.

Brendon didn’t even bother hiding his smile. He could be that kind of a dick.

*

Spencer looked up from the couch and said, “Hi.” Then he frowned. “Hi.”

Ryan shuffled a little bit. Brendon said brightly, “I let myself in. Anything good on the television?”

Spencer said to Ryan, “Can you excuse us?” Without waiting for an answer he stood, took hold of Brendon’s wrist and dragged Brendon into the next room. “So, what the fuck?”

“Spence, he’s—“

“Not my problem.”

Brendon counted to ten inside his head—twice. “Okay, so, that’s why you read his Twitter through my account?”

“Bren—“

“I get that you think he chose Jon over you, okay? I get it because let’s just both agree here that for a long time, my family chose fucking _religion_ over me—no ifs ands or buts. And I also get that you would like to beat him to death for expecting you to still protect his legal interests after that. But you know what, Spence? I also know for an actual, honest-to-fuck fact that there are bigger things in life. And surprise, your friendship? _So_ much fucking bigger. _Titanically_ fucking bigger. So man the fuck up, go in there, and be his friend. Because he needs one right now, and because he needs _you_ right now and because it’s the right thing to do and you’re that kind of guy.”

“Just so we’re clear, I want to snap you like the twig you are at this moment.”

“Totally understandable.”

“And you’re taking him home before morning.”

“Sure, I’ll even do a donut run.”

“With sprinkles. Every last fucking one with sprinkles.”

Brendon clapped Spencer on the shoulder. “A cornucopia of colored sugar shall be yours, my friend.”

“_Twig,_” Spencer growled, and stomped off to the living room.

*

“I should just,” Ryan motioned to the door and started walking toward it the moment they reappeared. “Uh, it was good seeing you, Spe—“

“What are you going to do, walk home?” Brendon rolled his eyes and dive-bombed the couch. “The buses don’t run this late.”

“They run until two,” Ryan argued. It was a little past one.

“You ride the buses after midnight?” Spencer asked sharply.

“Um,” Ryan said, not so sharply.

“You’re an idiot,” Spencer told him, his tone saying he meant every word.

Ryan nodded. Spencer looked even _more_ pissed that Ryan wasn’t going to give him the fight he was spoiling for. He barked, “Sit down.”

Ryan sat. “Um. I checked the guide. Indiana Jones is on Spike.”

“Oo, which one?” Brendon asked, already reaching for the controller. Spencer stole it away.

“First one,” Ryan said, not taking his eyes off Spencer. Brendon didn’t know the exact significance, but he could always tell when one of them was bringing up something from their past, even now, when their present was so shattered.

It took a long moment, but Spencer sighed and flipped to the channel. Brendon watched him pretend not to notice, when Ryan curled his knees up and hid a small smile behind them.

*

Brendon was as good as his word and took Ryan away before dawn--away and right back to Brendon’s house. Ryan said, “Uh, the buses don’t run this early.”

Brendon said, “Yeah, dumbass, I know. I have a guest room.”

“Bren—“

“It’s that or walk.”

Ryan looked as though he was considering it. Then he slumped in on himself a bit and followed Brendon into the house. When they got to the guest room, Ryan asked, “Why are you doing this?”

Brendon could think of a ton of answers to that ranging from “because I wish someone had for me,” to “because I’m kind of a masochist.” In the end, though, he went with the most risky answer, because that was how he rolled. “Because I miss you. And I think you miss us.”

Ryan’s expression was wide open and startled at that. Brendon laughed softly, but not as bitterly as he would have expected, and said, “Night. Or, you know, whatever.”

*

Ryan was already awake when Brendon got up in the early afternoon. Brendon took one look at the bags under Ryan’s eyes and asked, “Did you sleep at all?”

Ryan shrugged. “It worries me a little that I could totally be all the people in the ‘before’ section of infomercials.”

Brendon frowned for a second. “Oh, you mean the idiots who probably would cut their hands off if allowed butter knives?”

“Mm.”

“We all have our strengths,” Brendon said. “You want donuts? I promised Spence I’d bring some this morning.”

“Probably didn’t tell him you were bringing me, too, huh?”

Brendon grinned. “Don’t worry. You grow on people. I have real live proof.”

Ryan sighed, but didn’t argue more, just once again followed Brendon—this time out of the house.

*

Spencer clenched his jaw when Brendon walked into the kitchen, Ryan trailing him, but Spencer also kept quiet, and Brendon knew a partial victory when he saw one. Spencer took the box of donuts away from Brendon, clearly with no intention of sharing, but that was all right—Ryan and he had apportioned out their own donuts ahead of time.

Brendon kept the conversation going over “breakfast.” In fairness, Ryan tried to help, but shut down as soon as he saw Spencer glaring at him, and Spencer wasn’t taking his time about it.

After they were done, Brendon fished out the swimming trunks he’d brought for himself and Ryan, and slathered sunscreen all over Ryan—especially his back, because they all remembered the Heat Sickness Incident of ’06. Then Brendon hauled both Ryan and Spencer down to the beach and spent the afternoon in the absolutely useless pursuit of trying to teach Ryan to stay upright on a surfing board.

Frustrated, Brendon asked, “How is it that you can stay up on _ice skates_ while being forcibly pushed around by dudes bigger than you, but this stumps you?”

Ryan looked out of the corner of his eyes. Brendon saw Spencer on his own board, waiting for the wave to swell. Ryan said, “Whenever my dad let me fall on the ice, Spence helped me back up.”

Brendon wouldn’t have thought Spencer could hear Ryan over the sound of the ocean, but when he glanced over again, Spencer looked suspiciously uncertain about the world at large. He missed the wave in his moment of confusion and got thrown into the water. Ryan dived right in after him.

*

They showered back at Spencer’s. Spencer made chicken quesadillas with mango salsa and they ate on his back porch.

Ryan helped clean up and Spencer didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t bitch about Ryan being in his way, either. Afterward, the three of them settled in Spencer’s living room, Spencer and Brendon battling it out in a winner-takes-all tournament of Wii tennis, which they were both kind of lame at. The problem was, Spencer had baseball down, and Brendon was unchallenged Wii bowling champion, so it was either tennis or boxing, and both of them agreed that boxing was pretty boring.

Ryan watched and at one point asked, “What is the ‘all’ in winner-take-all?”

“Sexual favors from you,” Brendon told him.

“Sounds fair,” Ryan said. Spencer _totally_ missed the ball.

*

Ryan and Brendon ended up staying at Spencer’s, partially because the Wii tournament had turned into a mildly-tipsy Wii tournament at some point, and partially because Brendon just didn’t feel like getting in the car. He dragged Ryan to the guest room with him and said, “Promise not to molest you.”

Ryan mumbled, “You did win the tournament.”

Brendon laughed, an easy, clearly tipsy sound. “Who knew Wii skills were what got your motor running?”

Brendon stripped down to his boxers, and after a second, Ryan followed suit. They climbed in and for a moment, all Brendon could think about were those awkward sleepovers in that first year, when despite both Ryan and Spencer’s gangly, uncoordinated teenage bodies, Brendon had begun to figure out exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it. He shut the thought down. Sure, Ryan hadn’t been the best friend ever, but he’d come to Brendon and Brendon had let him stay and Brendon wasn’t That Guy.

Ryan said softly, “Hey, Bren?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks for the surfing lesson.”

Brendon laughed again. Ryan said, “No, I-- Thanks.”

“Yeah, Ry. Yeah.”

*

Brendon figured it out when he woke up thirsty in the middle of the night and found one half the bed empty. At first he thought Ryan had just cut out—nevermind the fact that he really had no good way of getting home, since the buses hadn’t been running by the time they went to bed. Then he heard music playing softly in the den and padded in to find Ryan curled up on the couch, listening to classic Fall Out Boy and flipping through one of Spencer’s family photo albums.

Ryan heard Brendon approach and colored. “Um. This was kind of already pathetic when it was just me by myself.”

Brendon didn’t say anything, just came over and sat next to Ryan. After a moment, he flipped a page in the album, and laughed at a picture of Crystal pouring ice down the back of Spencer’s shirt at some party that must have taken place in the Smith’s back yard.

Ryan said, “The twins’s eighth birthday.”

Brendon nodded. “Just out of curiosity, are you sleeping at all?”

“Patches, here and there. Thirty minutes, sometimes. Mostly not.” Ryan didn’t take his eyes off the album.

“Since when?”

“Since Jon chose his cats over me.”

Brendon tried not to laugh, he did, it was just that Ryan was the only person in the _world_ who could pull that statement off without sounding petulant. He failed, though, and after a second, Ryan joined in. Ryan’s laughter wasn’t as amused, but it was something.

Brendon said, “Someday, you too will know the love of a good animal.”

“I’m pretty sure I did, and she left me for my ex,” Ryan told him both wryly and mournfully all at once.

“Have you considered over-the-counter remedies?”

“They make it worse,” Ryan said, in a tone that suggested he didn’t want to talk about that experience.

“Y’know, most people, when they get depressed, sleep all the time,” Spencer said from the hallway, where he was making his way into the room, rubbing at his eyes.

“Yeah, well,” Ryan shrugged. “Far be it from me not to defy normality.”

Spencer snorted. Ryan said, “You guys should go back to bed.”

“Probably,” Spencer agreed, then nudged at Ryan, forcing him to scoot over and make room for Spencer on the couch.

*

Brendon woke up lying on the couch, Spencer’s torso serving as a pillow. Ryan was nowhere to be found. Brendon sat up and noticed the piece of paper taken from the magnetic pad Spencer always kept on his fridge. Ryan had scrawled, “I still had enough change to get home. Thanks. I mean it.”

Brendon wanted to ball the note up, toss it in the trash, pour himself a glass of OJ and get on with his life. He really did. Instead, he woke Spencer up and handed him the note. When Spencer had stopped grumbling and actually read it, Brendon said, “Tell me not to go. Tell me-- I don’t know, tell me I’ve followed him enough, or that nobody likes a whipped dude, or—“

“We’re showering and brushing our teeth first,” Spencer said, but not wholly unkindly, and not without squeezing Brendon’s shoulder. “And picking up something to eat. I’m not starving for Ryan Ross.”

“Nobody would expect you to,” Brendon said solemnly, and gave himself a moment to lean into Spencer’s grasp.

*

When Ryan didn’t answer the door, Spencer yelled, “Don’t think I didn’t have Walker make me an emergency key, asshole.”

That got a response. Ryan poked his head out the door and blinked—twice. “What? I mean, why? I mean—“

“No, seriously, let us in the door,” Spencer said, and pushed past Ryan.

Ryan gave Brendon a slightly pleading look, but Brendon just grinned and said, “We brought Indian.”

Ryan seemed thoughtful. “Palak paneer?”

“You have to ask?” Brendon asked.

Ryan let Brendon in and closed the door.

*

In the middle of eating lunch at Ryan’s table—the three of them entirely silent—Ryan stood up, plate in hand and walked over to where Spencer had tossed his jacket. Ryan rifled through the pockets until he found Spencer’s keys and then flipped through them until he found his own. “Spence—“

“When has the fact that I’m pissed off at you, hurt by you, whatever the fuck in relation to you, _ever_ mattered more than the fact that you and me are you and me?”

Ryan clenched the key in his free hand and did not look at Spencer. “I kind of thought it did since I decided to go with Jon.”

“That’s because you’re a moron. And I’m an even bigger one for still caring.”

“Oh,” Ryan said.

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Sit down and eat your lunch.”

Ryan did as told.

*

Brendon was strumming his guitar somewhat idly, Spencer going through their work emails and Ryan pretending to read something he’d grabbed off the shelf when Spencer asked, “What happens if you fall asleep?”

Brendon had to make a conscious effort to keep strumming, so that there wouldn’t be awkward silence, like in some kind of bad film. Ryan looked up, but Brendon noticed the way his fingers tightened around the book. After a bit, all he said was, “What?”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but evidently decided to play along. “When we were kids, it was always when your dad was sick, and you were worried if you fell asleep he might not be there when you woke up. After Pete said he was going to come you didn’t sleep for almost a week, like you were sure that would be the end of that. So what is it this time?”

“Considering I’ve already lost the things that matter?” Ryan asked, and to his credit, he looked straight at Spencer as he said the words and didn’t even flinch.

Spencer shrugged. “You have gone through two bands and Jon’s halfway across the country, so, yeah, sure, what the hell else could happen?”

Brendon ached at the words, although for himself, Spencer, or Ryan, he wasn’t entirely sure. Ryan looked over at Brendon then and said, “Bren let me in his house. You have my key.”

Spencer actually looked gobsmacked for a moment. “Really?”

“Yes, Spencer, you really have my key,” Ryan told him.

“Ry—“

“I didn’t stop sleeping before Jon left. And I’m oblivious but not mentally challenged—I saw the signs. I stopped sleeping _after_. And for fuck’s sake, I didn’t go through a second band, okay? The Nicks didn’t disappear, Andy’s still here, Jon’s obviously got fuck-all interest in stealing the songs or the name, and I can find another dude to fill out the sound. The band is revivable with a little bit of negotiation.” Ryan paused for a breath, sharp and loud now that Brendon _had_ stopped strumming.

“And if it isn’t, I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. I know people, the label’s got plenty of connections, I’ll just-- I’ll start over. So, really, Spencer, whatever this is, it’s not about my band and its hiatus or even Jon’s flakeyness.”

In the silence that followed, Brendon ventured, “Honestly, Ry, if I let you in this time, I don’t think you really have to worry about, uh, next time.”

Ryan rubbed a hand over his face. With his palms to his eyes he asked, “You know the last time I stopped sleeping?”

“No,” Brendon said, just as Spencer answered, “South Africa.”

“You know when I started again?”

Spencer tilted his head and then said, “My guess would be after we had lunch. But _you_ made that decision, Ryan, not me. I told you you could stay, that we’d work shit out.”

“But what happened if I stayed?” Ryan put his hands down. “Leaving—that was the worst thing I could do then, but it also meant I had control. If you stopped caring it was because I had pretended to stop caring, I could at least, I don’t know, escape with dignity? But if I stayed, and we just kept arguing, eroding away at what was there with not even the excuse of Jon’s musical preferences? What then, Spence?”

“Holy shit,” Brendon said. “You’re actually a moron.”

They both looked at him, then. Brendon blinked. “Um, did I say that aloud?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.

“Oh, sorry? That I said it where you could hear it?”

Ryan stared at him. Brendon shrugged. “Ryan, I know we all, like, feel that music is important and stuff, but it’s not _people_. I sure as shit wasn’t going to stop loving you because you have boring-ass taste sometimes, and if I wasn’t, then Spencer definitely wasn’t. And I’m relatively positive, given the fact that we’re sitting here, having this conversation, you could have forgiven my _positively pedestrian inclinations._”

Ryan blanched when Brendon quoted back one of Ryan’s more caustic moments. Brendon allowed himself to be pleased with that reaction for a second or so before getting his head back in the game. “If we lost Jon, we lost Jon. I’m not going to say I don’t miss the guy, but we lost Brent too and we managed that. _You_ were a different situation alfuckingtogether. It didn’t just randomly take us fucking forever to write another album.”

“I figured—“ Ryan twisted to the side, his mouth a tight line.

“You figured what?” Spencer asked, sounding like he already knew.

“You were…having fun. Y’know.”

“Without you,” Spencer said softly.

Ryan stood up. “I’m gonna,” he gestured with his hands, looking at neither of them. “Um, Tylenol PM, maybe. Thanks for lunch and all. I guess you can lock up when you’re ready.”

*

When Ryan had left the room, Brendon waited a moment before asking, “Are we leaving or following?”

Spencer’s jaw clenched. “Bren—“

“Or am I leaving and you following?”

Spencer looked at Brendon. “What?”

Brendon smiled. It felt tight, hot like a scab over an infected wound. “You stayed with me once, and I-- It meant a lot, even if he didn’t really give you much choice.” And Brendon had always wondered at that, if Ryan had known he had to shut Spencer down in order for Brendon to keep him. “But it’s not, I mean, it’s not as if I expected that would always—“

Brendon gasped at the feel of Spencer’s hands pushing up under Brendon’s shirt, laying flat against his chest. Spencer’s mouth hit Brendon’s without finesse or skill, just a lot of intent. When Spencer pulled back for a second, Brendon blinked. “Um. We’re in Ryan’s house.”

“And you’re as stupid as he is.”

“Okay,” Brendon agreed, since he still had no real clue of what was happening.

Spencer asked, “If I left, what would you do? Follow him, or me?”

Brendon opened his mouth to say, “You, obviously,” and realized it wasn’t so obvious. Upstairs, Ryan was curled up atop his bed, holding his stomach the way he did when he didn’t want to cry, like his hands might keep him together, keep the tears from breaking out.

Spencer said, “Brendon. Which one?”

Brendon swallowed and admitted, “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Spencer asked. “You just made my point for me.”

“I did?”

Spencer kissed him again, more slowly this time, and with a small bite to Brendon’s lower lip at the end. “We’re both following him. Much as I hate to admit it.”

“Yeah, well. At least he came to us first. That’s something.”

“If you say so.” Spencer pulled back and turned around, but not without taking Brendon’s hand. He led them up the stairs.

*

Ryan wasn’t on his bed, like Brendon had expected. Instead he was sitting on the floor of his shower, back to the tile wall, knees curled up, his head tipped so that his face was directly in the path of the stream. When they came in the bathroom door, he scrambled up, wiping water furiously from his eyes and managing to still glare at them through the fogged glass of the shower door. “This is my _bathroom._”

“Suck it up, Ross,” Spencer said. “Nothing we haven’t seen before.”

Which, okay, was true, but Brendon had just been practically held down and molested by Spencer, and it had been a while since he’d seen Ryan and he was kind of primed so he gestured to the bedroom, “I’ll be in there.”

Spencer called, “Grab him some pajamas, would you?”

“Uh,” Brendon said, and went to go look for some. He took a moment to smack his head lightly against Ryan’s wall, just to help him clear his mind, and all. Ryan’s pajamas—bizarrely predictably—were in with his ties. Because who didn’t need a tie while going to bed?

By the time Brendon had gotten the sheets peeled off—they smelled bad—and stuck them in the wash, Spencer was herding Ryan out of the shower. Ryan looked bedraggled and a little bit too pink. Brendon held out the pajamas. “Your sheets were dirty.”

“Huh,” Ryan said, and took the pajamas. “Thanks.”

Spencer left the room and Brendon yelled, “Where are you going?”

“To make a blanket fort,” Spencer yelled back, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. Then again, Brendon reflected, blanket forts were hard to argue with.

*

Ryan didn’t have the amount of blankets one could technically desire for a blanket fort, but Brendon had long ago learned to respect Spencer’s mastery at the art form of blanket fort architecture. Within twenty minutes, Ryan had something of a blanket city set up in his living room, with his sofa and the entertainment center as the city’s outer walls. Most incredibly, there was a congregation of pillows and other resting places that made up the city streets.

Spencer pulled them both in and got everyone situated just as he wanted them, which meant Ryan in the middle and everyone covered by the comforter he’d stolen from Ryan’s bedroom floor. Ryan stared up at the huge-ass Canucks fleece that was stretched over their heads and asked, “Remember the first time we made one of these?”

Spencer rolled on his side to look at Ryan. “Um. Was it that time after summer camp?”

Ryan shook his head. “Nah. It was the first time I came over because my dad was sick. I was like, seven, I think. Your dad thought it would distract me, learning how to make a blanket fort.”

“Did it?” Brendon asked.

Ryan shook his head. “Not really. But it made me feel safer. Like maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.”

Spencer threw his arm over Ryan’s waist, grabbed Brendon’s wrist and tugged him in closer. He murmured, “Go to sleep, Ry.”

Ryan’s breath caught. “I think it has the opposite effect this time.”

Brendon bit his lip. “Ry, we’re in a fort. Nobody leaves the battlements without the regiment knowing.”

Ryan blinked at him. Brendon said, “Or something. I don’t know. _Your_ dad was military.”

“Go to sleep, Ross,” Spencer’s lips were touching Ryan’s neck. Brendon watched as Ryan stiffened. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Why not?” Ryan asked.

Spencer looked at Brendon. Brendon looked back. After a moment, Brendon shifted his gaze to Ryan and said, “Because evidently, neither of us could even if we wanted to.”

“I don’t—“

“Well, I know how you hate clichés, but I love pissing you off, so let’s just say there are some things you can’t leave behind.” Spencer’s eyes were drifting shut.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not one of those things,” Ryan said softly.

“Yep.” Brendon nodded. “But I, I am right and you are wrong. Like I always am and you always are.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. Spencer snorted. Brendon said, “Dude, we did listen to the album.”

“Listening enough to paraphrase and properly, if somewhat ironically, quote is different than listening.”

“I’m a good listener,” Brendon told him. “You should try it. Like when Spence tells you to go to sleep.”

Ryan wrapped his hand around Brendon’s wrist, tightly enough that it hurt just a bit. Brendon could see Ryan had done the same to Spencer with his other hand. Ryan said, “Sorry, I just—“

“Go. To. Sleep,” Spencer said. Ryan very determinedly shut his eyes.

*

It took the better part of two hours for Ryan to actually fall asleep. Brendon knew because it was two long hours of being accidentally elbowed and having a bruising grip almost constantly on him. But eventually Ryan managed, his breathing evening out and his muscles relaxing.

Spencer sighed. “Fucking finally.”

Brendon whispered, “If I’d known it was going to take that long, I’d’ve made us wait for the sheets to be finished.”

“I don’t think he would’ve fallen asleep on the bed. Even with us there.”

“Spence—“

“One step at a time, Bren.”

“Just—“

“Yeah, I know. I know, Brendon. But I don’t have all the answers. We’ve got him sleeping right now. And, I dunno, we’ve got _him_. So. One step.”

Brendon fumbled around until he found Spencer’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “Yeah, okay.”

*

Ryan slept for almost fifteen hours. He slept through both Brendon and Spencer getting up to use the bathroom, through Spencer making food, Brendon leaving to eat it, and one or two breaks just to check their phones and make sure nobody thought they were dead. When he woke up, though, they were both still there.

After a long minute he said, “I can’t figure out if I’ve hallucinated a lot of the past couple of days.”

Spencer sat up and pulled Ryan up to his feet. “Not the stuff that matters.”

Ryan followed easily as Spencer led him to the kitchen, poured him coffee and water, and made him scrambled eggs with cheese. Brendon sat in another chair at the table and put his feet in Ryan’s lap. Ryan looked at the feet as if he didn’t understand what they were for a moment. He made a face at Brendon then, but didn’t push Brendon’s feet away. Brendon knew what victory looked like with Ryan. It might have changed a little bit, but not all that much—not enough for him not to recognize it.

Ryan looked at the clock on his stove and said, “I really, um. Thanks? A lot, for not leaving. But don’t you guys—“

“The digital age is amazing,” Spencer said as he brought Ryan the plate. “What with being able to communicate without going places.”

“Right, but don’t—“

“Nothing that couldn’t be rescheduled,” Spencer said.

Ryan took a few bites before saying, “I could-- I mean, I don’t really have anything going on. If it’s not a big deal for me to tag along.”

“Maybe,” Spencer said.

“Finish your breakfast,” Brendon said.

Ryan sighed. “When did _you_ get so bossy?”

“Someone had to pick up the slack,” Brendon told him unapologetically.

*

People noticed Ryan tagging along, obviously, but the photographer they were working with for the cover art really didn’t give a crap, and the exec Pete needed them to talk to about touring schedules didn’t either, so it just wasn’t a big deal.

Ryan, evidently, had spent his time checking out sites with lolcats that seemed to feature a lot of aardvarks, since that what was he had to share when Spencer and Brendon were finally released. There was a porcupine in the mix somewhere, and Ryan shared it with the thought, “One of these things is not like the others.”

“Tell me about it,” Spencer said, and wrapped his hand over the back of Ryan’s neck. Ryan looked down and smiled.

_Gotcha_, Brendon thought.

*

They spent the next week and a half or so rotating between each other’s houses. During the day Spencer and Brendon went and took care of business. Ryan, as far as Brendon could tell, vacillated between writing songs for a band that didn’t necessarily exist and actually trying to talk to the remaining members of his band, figuring out what they were thinking.

Sometimes Ryan wanted to talk about it, but mostly he talked about other things, inconsequential stuff, like the fact that he wanted to go to a My Chem show, or his debate over the merits of half & half versus cream in coffee, or why he was growing to have an irrational hatred of meteorologists. All fair game, really.

So Brendon felt completely justified in tripping over his own shoelaces when Ryan walked into Spencer’s house bearing his guitar case and opened with, “Even if it means never sleeping again, I’d really like it if we could all have sex before I cause this casual détente to implode horribly.”

Spencer, of course, had clearly been expecting this. “Casual détente? How long have you been practicing that speech?”

Ryan flipped him off. “It was well-delivered.”

Having recovered from the Shoestring Incident, Brendon repeated, “_Casual détente_,” and added, “I fucking hate you.”

Ryan looked at Spencer while pointing at Brendon. “Already imploding.”

“Sit down and shut up,” Spencer said. Ryan, surprisingly, actually did.

Spencer went and sat next to him. After a second, Brendon decided to join. Spencer said, “Tell me how this plays out in your head, Ry.”

“There are a lot of variables.” Ryan had a mulish expression on his face. Happily, Brendon could well vouch for the fact that Spencer was a stubborn dick who could out-stubborn Ryan Ross any day of the week.

“Okay,” Spencer said. “That’s not an answer.”

Brendon watched the switch flip in Ryan, watched him straighten and let his eyes go dull before telling Spencer in an undramatic, even tone, “It ends the way it ended the first time. It ends with me being no good for you, with me leaving and neither of you following. It ends.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Ryan.”

Brendon said softly, “But for that to be true, all of the factors would have to be the same. And they’re not, you said so yourself.”

“The important ones are,” Ryan said, but he sounded more hopeless than sure.

“I don’t know that that’s true,” Brendon told Ryan, even as he was looking at Spencer.

Spencer nodded at Brendon, keeping their gazes locked as he said, “It took everything I had not to follow the first time. I don’t think I have any willpower left on that front.”

“And I don’t think you have the willpower to walk away again,” Brendon said, looking at Ryan that time.

Ryan said, “Oh, screw you,” but his tone indicated that Brendon had hit a sore spot, more than anything else.

There was a moment of silence before Brendon really couldn’t help himself. “Well, I mean, if you’re still insisting on that, I’m really not the guy who’s gonna say no.”

Ryan tilted his head. “Spence?”

“Dude, we’re all sexually functional males in our early twenties. I’m not even sure what we’ve been waiting for.”

Ryan said, “I was kind of waiting for the sign that you were, y’know, actually interested. I mean, it’s not like it was ever like that, and you both know I’m bad at reading people—“

“Seriously?” Brendon asked. “That’s seriously why we haven’t had sex yet?”

The three of them shared a look. Brendon laughed. “Motherfucker.”

*

They went to the bedroom, because Spencer was completely uptight about his couch and everyone knew it. Also, Brendon secretly thought that none of them were all that sure of the logistics of this decision and a bed seemed the safest place to test things out. Ryan would probably end up injured anyway—Ryan got injured doing things like brushing his teeth—but it would be best if they could contain the level of harm.

Brendon had gone through a few stages in regard to sex in his lifetime. There had been stage 1, where all he could do was think about having it; stage 2, where he’d liked having it a lot with just about anyone, anywhere, at anytime; and stage 3, where he’d started being a little more picky about what he wanted. Evidently, this was stage 4: the part where it might actually mean something. Interesting, because Brendon had begun to suspect that stage was a myth.

Ryan sat on the bed, fully clothed and said, “So, um.”

“Way to bring the awkward, Ross,” Spencer laughed, and pushed Ryan back with a hand to his chest. Then he kissed Ryan and Brendon couldn’t look away. It was a little bit like watching destiny happen, or something else ridiculously pre-determined. Also, hot.

Brendon lazily pulled his shirt over his head as he continued to watch, but evidently that action drew Spencer’s attention, and in turn, Ryan’s. Brendon grinned. He liked watching them, sure, but being the center of attention wasn’t something he ever turned down. Ryan pulled Spencer’s ear down to Ryan’s mouth and whispered something that made Spencer smile.

“Hey, no fair,” Brendon said.

Spencer rolled off Ryan and the two of them made their way up the bed to where they were sitting with their backs to the headboard—watching Brendon. Spencer said, “Well? Finish what you started.”

Brendon laughed, but did as told, socks and pants and boxers following where the shirt had gone. There was a bit of dancing and singing and mostly just letting his freak flag fly, because, well, it was Spencer and Ryan. No matter what went wrong, it wouldn’t be them judging him.

When he was done he said, “Your turn.”

Spencer grinned, and reached out to unbutton Ryan’s shirt, and okay, Brendon was just fine with them taking care of each other’s business, if that was how they wanted it. It took longer that way, because Ryan wore ridiculous clothing. Ryan was quicker with Spencer, but then, Spencer was in cargo shorts and a t-shirt.

After a long moment, awkward and heated and loudly silent, Ryan said, “Brendon,” and made it sound like a request.

Brendon practically flew onto the bed, landing just short of them, and causing Ryan to _oof_ anyway at the impact. Ryan grabbed onto Brendon’s neck and brought their mouths together, finishing something Brendon suspected they’d started all too long ago, both of them too afraid to find out what was at the conclusion.

Spencer said, “Hey,” and then it was a bit of a free-for-all, each of them getting in where they could, mouths on mouths, necks, jawlines, shoulders.

It was too frantic for them to really do anything fancy, and at some point Brendon found himself grinding against Ryan’s leg. Ryan moved in time with Brendon and when Brendon managed to focus for a moment, he noticed Ryan’s hand wrapped over Spencer’s cock, Spencer returning the favor. Brendon reached out with the hand that wasn’t clinging to Ryan’s shoulder for dear life and helped Ryan out with Spencer.

Brendon bent his head to the stark line of Ryan’s shoulder and licked, biting the skin at the edge lightly, just enough to make Ryan grunt. The sound, the taste of Ryan, Spencer’s harsh, uneven breathing, all of it was better than anything Brendon had ever done, even the girls he couldn’t have imagined landing and the boys who’d sucked him with awe in their eyes. Brendon let go, rode the edge of the orgasm straight into climax.

He felt Spencer succumb moments later, when Brendon was still remembering how to move his muscles, feel his limbs. Ryan held out, and, looking at his face, Brendon could tell it was conscious, that he was _trying_\--and not because this was a contest. Ryan liked to hold onto things.

Brendon shimmied up Ryan’s side and breathed, “C’mon, Ry,” into his ear.

For the first time in a long, long time, Ryan listened to Brendon without hesitation.

*

They all kind of fell asleep afterward for a few hours. When they woke up, Spencer made coffee. Ryan said, “So, uh. I can do better.”

Brendon said, “Prove it.”

The coffee was cold by the time they got around to it.

*

A couple of days later, Spencer was the one to say, “You wanna come up to New York with us? Watch the show?”

Not that Brendon wouldn’t have offered, but they hadn’t really spoken about it, and Spencer had a better feel for what was likely to wig Ryan the hell out for no good reason.

Ryan picked at the dinner he’d been eating just fine the moment before. “Yeah, I-- Okay.”

“Because if you said no, we’d still come back and continue having glorious sex with you. Just so that’s clear,” Brendon added.

Ryan put the fork down at that. “Yeah, Bren, I actually have a decently high opinion of both you douchebags.”

Brendon totally loved the fact that Ryan could be really offended without changing his tone at all sometimes, but he also knew that now was not the moment to be distracted by this trait. “Okay, well, you seemed less-than-thrilled with the idea, so I thought I’d put it out there.”

“Why didn’t you ever come see The Young Veins?” Ryan asked softly.

“Didn’t think you’d want us there,” Brendon said.

“Speak for yourself. I was pissed,” Spencer made clear.

Ryan focused on Spencer. “So not because it would have been hard. Because it would have felt like everything you couldn’t have.”

“Do you have to have your hats specially-sized to fit that overgrown ego?” Spencer asked.

“Spence,” Ryan said.

Brendon looked down for a second to hide his smile. When he’d recovered he asked, “What can’t you have, Ry? The band? Is it really about the band?”

Ryan shrugged. “It’s a part of both of you I’ll never have. And I will always know I _could_ have had.”

“So write us songs,” Spencer said softly. They both looked at him in surprise. He said, “What?” then leaned forward and tapped a finger against Ryan’s temple. “We all know you have plenty up there, enough to give us some and still have all the ones you want left over for yourself.”

Ryan blinked. He looked over at Brendon. “You’d still, um? You’d be okay with that? After having gotten to sing your own stuff?”

Brendon had always felt more comfortable having someone else’s (Ryan’s) story to tell, rather than his own. All he said, was, “Yes, please.”

Ryan picked his fork back up. “I’d get royalties, right?”

“Oh no, nothing that keeps you from being our Cabana Boy,” Spencer said. “Veto on that.”

“Blow me,” Ryan said. (Nor did he complain when Spencer did, right there, under the table.)

*

On the plane to New York, Ryan sat at the window seat and scribbled. Spencer ordered him a ginger ale when the stewardess came around. Ryan drank Spencer’s orange juice instead. Spencer just rolled his eyes and drained the ginger ale. Brendon prepared himself to fight to the death over his Dr. Pepper, but evidently Ryan respected his ninja prowess.

Eventually, Ryan slid a paper with a lot of nonsense on it over to Brendon. Brendon read down to the bottom, trying to decipher, well, _anything._ When he got to the very last line, it said, “I don’t know if I can do this when I’ve acknowledged that it’s important to me you _like_ the words.”

Brendon stole Ryan’s pen and added a message. He tapped on Spencer’s shoulder to get Spencer’s approval. Spencer handed the note back. They both watched as Ryan read the words, “You can.”

Ryan considered the paper for a moment, then folded it up and placed it in his vest pocket. He leaned his head against Spencer’s shoulder, snuggled in, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.


End file.
